“Yes! He'd say 'Keerow,' and I'd say 'Keeree.' Suthing like a bird, you know.”
Indeed, as she lifted her voice in imitation of the call, the Colonel thought it certainly very sweet and birdlike. At least as SHE gave it. With his remembrance of the grim deacon he had doubts as to the melodiousness of HIS utterance. He gravely made her repeat it.
“And after that signal?” he added suggestively.
“He'd pass on.”
The Colonel again coughed slightly, and tapped his desk with his penholder.
“Were there any endearments—er—caresses—er—such as taking your hand—er—clasping your waist?” he suggested, with a gallant yet respectful sweep of his white hand and bowing of his head; “er—slight pressure of your fingers in the changes of a dance—I mean,” he corrected himself, with an apologetic cough—“in the passing of the plate?”
“No; he was not what you'd call 'fond,'” returned the girl.
“Ah! Adoniram K. Hotchkiss was not 'fond' in the ordinary acceptance of the word,” noted the Colonel, with professional gravity.
She lifted her disturbing eyes, and again absorbed his in her own. She also said “Yes,” although her eyes in their mysterious prescience of all he was thinking disclaimed the necessity of any answer at all. He smiled vacantly. There was a long pause. On which she slowly disengaged her parasol from the carpet pattern, and stood up.
“I reckon that's about all,” she said.